


A Prince Of My Own

by Phanto77



Category: Original Work
Genre: All me from there, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Beautiful, Bondage, Captive Prince - Freeform, Chains, Dark, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Forced Eye Contact, Gags, Gentle Dom, Golden Cage, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Haughty Prince Meets Conquering Lord Daddy, Heterochromia, Historical, It's 8am, Just the inkling, LATER, M/M, Medieval, Nobility, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Submission, Nothing more, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Punishment, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Royalty, Silence Kink, Slow Burn, Spanking, Strict Dom, Submission, This is slightly based on a GoT history story, Tragic Romance, a legit ACTUAL captive prince, humbling, no not that one, prince - Freeform, the idea, warlord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phanto77/pseuds/Phanto77
Summary: A new lord arrives at a conquered castle and is presented with the castle's last remaining prince, betrayed by his own royal guard.What should Lord Duncan do with Prince Alaric?
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 39
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please accept this unbeta'd mess. Been working on it in my head for a while. Decided to finally start writing it. Don’t worry, sad-sexy times a-comin!
> 
> Enjoy! Oh and please subscribe, my posting schedule is convoluted, and comment.

The battle was won, little left to be done but rule. The Duncan sat in the dining hall of his former, vanquished enemy, being ogled fearfully by the castle’s peasant staff. Tired and with his clothes unchanged, he desperately wished he could dispense with all of this so he may find a bed for the night. It felt like he hadn’t slept in months. Well, not with the Stygians fighting him and his king tooth and nail, he admitted, quite valiantly. But even before the last battle, for quite a while actually, everyone knew the Duncan would be victorious. 

He knows he should not call what the captain of the castle guard did treason, for he did not betray the right side. But while his king lauded the swift handover of the last stronghold in the kingdom, it was nevertheless a horrid betrayal of his king, princes, and his kingdom. The king would not hear sense. A man who would abandon his responsibility, as well as betray the remaining prince... he is a man who is hard to trust. If trusting such a man was at all possible.

The room was beautiful. The ornate velvet curtains had successfully covered the grey and dreary stone walls that plagued the old castle. It was indeed a very old castle. Ruled by a very old dynasty, A dynasty which has all but died out, save for the remaining prince, currently imprisoned within the walls of the castle he once called haven.

He looked around at the faces he will soon rule for his king. Everyone was here, from the lowest scullery maids and stable boys, to the old man he guessed was the head of the castle staff. Some in tattered clothes, and others in better ones, there was one thing that was unmistakable. Everyone was clean. Other than the hands of some, whose filth was a natural consequence of their work, the cleanliness was uncharacteristic of a peasant population. And once more, he hardly thought them clean because of their excitement at his arrival. No, there was no excitement at all, judging by their faces. The head of the castle staff, who was briefly mentioned as have the name Horace, and his wife Mildred, were stoic and dutiful. The maids and footmen had mixed expressions. Some looked terrified and others annoyed. No doubt the terrified ones heard the stories, albeit embellished, circulated by his enemies or a frightened and superstitious populace. The annoyance, he knew not whence it came. Maybe they were disappointed that the fabled Duncan was no demon at all, but merely a large and militaristicallly capable man. He knew that his beard, barely contained by its braids, did not exactly help his image. He conceded that he indeed looked terrifying, an image he always appreciated and secretly about which he was slightly uncomfortable. But it was two faces in particular that caught his attention. A young scullery maid, who could not be older than 18, and an even younger stable boy. Their faces conveyed, boldly and undoubtedly, the most ardent and venomous disdain. Young, impotent hate adorned their tanned faces. If the hatred in her face was not brave, he would have named it petulance, like a 5 year old child who hated his vegetables and refused to eat them. There was fire in this girl, a fire that he, a warrior and conquerer, respected greatly. Many display stupidity in the guise of bravery. But there was nothing stupid about this girl’s expressed disdain. She hated him for a reason, he knew not what it was, but it was there. And she was willing to show it. The less intense, but still apparent, hatred of the stable youth was not as apparent as the girl standing next to him. He was younger and undoubtedly more frightened. But if he were still under the tutelage of his adjacent sister, he would undoubtedly become as foolhardy as she.

He was soon distracted by the soft but constant clanging of pans as a young lady carried the first of his plates towards the table at whose head he sat, her hands shaking uncontrollably and threatening to drop the plates altogether. He watched as a calm and comforting Horace stopped her, whispered something in her ear, and took the plate from her, carrying it towards him with ease and grace. The young woman went to stand by the other maids, covering her eyes with her hands. The young woman next to her holding and squeezing her shoulders. The old man put the plate of food on the table, and more plates followed, the last being a large tankard of ale. Gods, how he’d missed ale. He had disallowed himself from drinking all spirits while at war. Yorrick, his second in command, scoffed at this habit, arguing that as a relatively young man, he should at least live his life a little. But he disagreed. And it soon became known how the Duncan hated to be alleviated of his mental faculties and his mental sharpness. I have to be awake and ready at all times, he would say to them. But now war is over. The kingdom conquered and under control. He was entitled to a little ale. Within reason, of course. 

No one had spoken a word to him since he entered. He was almost relieved. He was never good at this part. The other lords had already taken their own castles and he was the last. The last conqueror of the last kingdom. And he had watched the pomp and ceremony before the other lords began to rule their castles and principalities for the king, and he dreaded the day where his turn would come. The king had designated Stygia to him for many reasons. By the standards of all the neighbouring kingdoms, Stygia was the oldest, most civilised, and by far the hardest to bring into the fold. Stygia was by no means a large kingdom, nor did they have a large army. Their strength lay in good leadership, diplomacy, and strategy. The king had always wondered how it took so long for someone to think of conquering Stygia, and when he decided to unify the kingdoms under his rule, he found out why. Stygians are good friends. The king also hoped they would be good subjects. The Duncan was young, compared to the other lords, having been thrust into responsibility at a very young age, when his father died and his mother took to guiding him in his father’s footsteps. But he was competent on the battlefield, and as only the king knew, learned and unburdened by an aversion to knowledge, as some lords were. The Duncan had his vices. Many of them, in fact. But they never got in the way, and the king liked that. The Duncan was also the son of a great family, a family who had always taken service seriously, even he, young and rash as he was, was raised to do so. 

The sound of marching slowly began to approach. The sound was uniform and uninterrupted. The Royal Guard. The Royal Guard were known for their uniformity and discipline, not just their prowess. Tapped and trained from their infancy, it was a great honour to be a Royal guard. And the man who now stood before him, young, dashing, and cunning, was their Captain. The Royal Guard was meant to fight to the last man and die protecting the castle and the remaining prince. But a month past, he and the king had received a bird carrying a message from the young captain, telling him that he has pledged allegiance to him and has taken over the castle, holding the young remaining prince as an offering for the Duncan’s arrival. The Captain wrote of his affinity for the official message of the conquest: uniting the kingdoms into one fold, for peace and prosperity. Everyone had tired of the wars between three kingdoms, in particular, Nemidia, Coron, and Ichit, and the constant influx of refugees and the general chaos of war was becoming a burden on all surrounding kingdoms. King Alfrod then decided to conquer and unite. It was there that the Stygians expressed their ardent disapproval. Stygia, even with a competent army, knew very little war. They were diplomatic and peaceful. So why the conquest? This is a point which is undeniably confounding, and the reason the Duncan began to mistrust the Captain almost instantly and without even meeting the man. Alfrod would not listen, however, wanting to reward the man immediately. His treachery is to be forgotten and his post kept, with a title of the kingdom and even higher wages. The Captain was now a knight, a post he was too young for in Stygia. 

“My Lord,” the Captain’s voice boomed, aggravatingly loud. “We welcome you to Stygia, your new castle, and the command of this kingdom.” He stepped forward. “My name is Ambrose and my Guard and I are at your service.”

“Thank you, Captain.” If anything, the Duncan’s voice sounded bored. His words, however, were the subject of murmurs and hushed conversations from the staff, as they revealed his low voice and his Edenic accent. The accent was clearly strange to them, even though they, and most of the neighbouring kingdoms spoke the same language, if with different accents. 

“We’ve brought a gift!” Said the Captain, cheerfully and bombastically. And with that he stepped aside to reveal a man, naked and kneeling, with his head bowed. The Duncan had been seated casually, leaning back in his chair, at the centre of the table. Upon seeing the kneeling figure, he sat up, brow furrowing. The pale body looked lean, skinny if it weren’t for the little muscle it had left. The man’s body was packed with grime, bruises, and cuts. His breathing appeared to be laboured and his hands were bound behind him, and it was evident they were bound tightly and painfully. The Captain turned around and rested his hand on the the man’s head, and there was an audible but quiet flinch. The man’s hair was golden but dirty and matted. 

“I present to you, my lord. Youngest son of King Frederick and Queen Adelaide,” he said, hand tightening in the man’s hair. He continued, voice dripping with sarcasm, “His Highness, Prince Alaric of Stygia.” And with that, the Captain pulled back the young man’s head by his hair, revealing his face. At the sight of the prince’s face, the staff in the room gasped, one young woman even turning around and sobbing on another’s shoulder. The scullery maid was being held by the arm and calmed by Horace. 

The first thing the Duncan noticed on the prince’s face was how consistent with his body it was. Bruised, bound, and still beautiful. The prince’s face was almost split in half by the tight makeshift gag. The gag, whose colour was almost indeterminable due to how dirty it was, attempted unsuccessfully to cover the leftover bruises at the corner of Prince Alaric’s mouth and jaw. The bruise under his left eye was in no way hindered and was visible in all its cruel glory. The prince’s eyes were pained and he looked to be still adjusting to the light around him. And they were the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Or were they green? By the gods... they were both. The right eye was a beautiful turquoise blue and his left was a deep emerald green. So the rumours had been true. The prince’s eyes were two different colours. And he was as beautiful as his family. Having met the Stygian king and princes on the battlefield, every one of them handsome, even the old man, the Duncan, by virtue of his beauty alone, was indeed King Frederick’s youngest son. Although he did look to be the runt of the family. It is said what he lacked in size, that is to say, he is average-sized while his brothers were all almost as large as the Duncan himself, he made for in stately competence, intelligence, and prowess with a bow and arrow. When King Frederick was mocked for leaving his youngest, a lad of 22 and so hardly a child, at home instead of allowing him to fight, he silenced his detractors by proclaiming his son’s competence in matters of the state, lauding both the young man’s intelligence in spite of being the youngest, as well as his own for leaving behind a capable statesman to run the castle in his absence. All my sons are capable of rule, he said, and asked if his detractors could say the same. But then the king died on the battlefield, leaving his last son to a new conquering regime.

The tense air was interrupted by a female voice bellowing, “You monster!” All eyes instantly went to the source. The scullery maid. The Captain’s eyes flared for a moment. If the Duncan had been a fraction of a second late in looking at him, he would have missed it. But it was instantly gone. And returns the smile and diplomatic expression he had been wearing since he arrived. 

“Please ignore her, my lord. She’s nothing but a silly chit. I could have her removed.”

He heard Horace admonish her, not unkindly, whispering, “Quiet, you idiot. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Before he could reply, the scullery maid ejaculated, “I ain’t no silly chit. And I ain’t no idiot neither.” Her accent was thick, evidence of her lowborn status. But she spoke as if she were a brave knight, defending his lady love. “I can even read,” she said, head held high, as if showing off her best trait. And some may think it is. A scullery maid that can read? Almost unheard of. Her next words were hesitant, as if her assuredness was slowly seeping away. “Well... I can read a little. I’m still learning.” She then swallowed and quieted down, unsure what to say next. 

The Duncan sat back. When he spoke, all commotion halted, the room’s occupants staring at him expectantly. “What is your name, girl?” 

She looked at Horace, frightened and unsure. He nodded and she hesitantly answered. “G-Greta...” Horace nudged her a little too strongly. She instantly and awkwardly curtsied. “... Your High Lordship.”

The Duncan almost smiled at her mistake. “So you can read, Greta?”

Greta nodded fervently. “I’m learning. Practising every day.”

He looked at Horace. “Do scullery maids read in Stygia?”

“No, my lord,” he answered evenly. 

He went back to Greta. “Who said you could read, girl?”

“His Highness. He taught me himself, he did. He’s a good man. Caught me pinchin’ a book and didn’t punish me or whip me or nothin’. He asked why I stole and I told him. He said he’d teach me. He did when he had the time. He’s a busy man, his Highness is.” There were murmurs of both surprise and agreement. 

She looked at Horace and then curtsied again. “Your High Lordship.” She approached, taking one step, afraid to take any more. “He’s a good man, his Highness is. It ain’t right what they done to him.” She looked around. “Ain’t right at all. We know it’s war on and all, but it ain’t right.” The murmur of agreement was silenced by the Duncan.

He stood up, chair creaking under his weight. He walked towards the young prince, who looked at him wearily. A pin drop could have been heard, so was the silence in the dining hall. This worried silence turned into a shocked silence when the Duncan removed his cloak and draped it over Prince Alaric’s naked shoulders. The cloak was heavy, warm from the material as well as the Duncan’s body heat. He then held the prince’s tense shoulders as he helped him up, having to support him some, as his legs were weak. His balance was also off as his hands were still bound tightly behind him. He led the prince the table where he sat and sat him down to his right, around the corner on the table. He then stood behind the prince and tried in vain to remove the gag. It was so tightly tied around his face, it had gotten tangled in his hair and there was no untangling that. The Duncan then retrieved a dagger from his belt, an ornate gift from his father, and began cutting the gag away carefully, trying his best to cut as little hair as possible. When he was finished, he threw the rag aside and cut the twine around the prince’s wrists. He noted, as the ropes fell away, the rope marks and bruises already on his wrists, some old, some new, but put that aside for now. 

He then sat down, careful to wipe his hands away from the prince’s gaze. Which, admittedly was not hard. His eyes downcast, he looked at the table, stoically ashamed.

The Duncan reached to multiple plates of food, building two plates of almost exact size. He put one before him and one before the prince. “Eat,” he ordered, cuttingly, and began to eat himself. When the prince did not move, he asked, “Hungry?”

The prince looked at him for a millisecond and then back down, nodding bashfully. 

“So eat. Your cook made it.” He watched the prince raise his head, as if a different person. He reached for a piece of cloth on the table. After wiping his hands, he placed the cloth onto his lap. He then tilted his head, and rearranged the cutlery placed before him to its proper order. He then began cutting his meat into small and neat squares. He finally finished, leaving a large chunk of meat uncut. All the while, the Duncan was watching. He’d stopped eating, famished as he was, and watched the difference in the prince’s movements. There was still much shame. But the cloak and freed limbs and mouth helped immensely, it seems. The prince finally put a piece of meat in his mouth, chewing slowly and politely. Duncan was pleasantly surprised. The prince must be famished as well, looking as lean as he did. 

“You may dispense with the table etiquette, princeling.” Duncan’s voice was reassuringly strict. 

The prince paused, still looking down, as if thinking what to say. “I...” he paused. The Duncan noticed, dismayed, that his voice, even as an almost-whisper, was hoarse either with disuse or too much use. “I must... eat slowly.”

Greta’s voice popped up. “They’ve not been feeding his Highness much, the bastards. He eats too fast, he’ll hurl all over your pretty cloak.” Horace grabbed the girl by the arm and shook her, angry but clearly afraid for her safety. He hissed at her to shut up.

A voice came from the direction of the Royal Guard, an unknown soldier. “We fed him plenty, alright!” he said laughingly, grabbing the crotch of his trousers. 

At this statement, the Duncan watched the prince squeeze his eyes shut, as shame overtook him. “Bastards!” Shouted Greta. 

“Quiet.” The Duncan did not bark, but his voice was booming enough to silence everyone.

The Duncan stood up and walked to Horace, taking him aside. “Where does the prince sleep?”

“I-in the dungeons, my lord.”

“Yes, I mean before that. Did he sleep in the King’s Chambers?”

“No, my lord, not even when his father was away. His room is nearby, however.”

“Good. I will be sleeping in the Lord’s chamber. I want you to take the prince to his room...” He chose to ignore the apparent surprise on Horace’s face. “Bathe him, clothe him, and take the food on the table for him to finish.”

“My lord...” Horace hesitated.

“What is it, man? Speak.”

“If you‘ll permit me to retrieve some things for the prince from the King and princes’ chambers. Ambrose.. the Captain... He,” Horace looked around and whispered. “He burned the clothes in Prince Alaric’s rooms. There is nothing there for him to wear.”

The Duncan sighed. “I see. You may do that. But hurry. I want to rest some. Is the King’s chamber ready?”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” He repeated his thanks, as the new Lord of the castle left the dining hall to the sound the staff helping the prince off his chair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait, but I’m just so excited to get this out for you guys. I have to warn you, most chapters won’t be out this early, but I still want you to enjoy, subscribe, and comment!

The prince was quiet in the tub, occasionally wincing when the chambermaid glided over his wounds, either bruise or cut. It was the third tub of water he was in, the first instantly becoming a light brown and the occasional red and reducing the prince to tears. The second was where the real washing happened, and as they helped him into the third, he, as he was sure the servants were as well, was at least thankful the Royal Guard did not burn the scents and perfumes in his rooms along with his clothes that fateful night he’d been caught with a knife. Ambrose’s face was comically surprised that the prince wanted him dead, even after all he’d done to him. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Ambrose stood at the door, playing with what appears to be an apple. He looked up when he saw that Alaric finally noticed him. “Did you ever think you would be back here?”

Water chortled as Alaric moved his hands to cover his nakedness. “What do you want, Ambrose?”

Ambrose’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Your bravery is tidal isn’t it? Comes and goes.”

“Yes, Ambrose. I don’t tend to mouth off when you and your dogs are beating me.”

Ambrose huffed. “I was surprised that he allowed you back in here, but then I thought... where else would he bed you?” He smiled again at Alaric’s head shooting up to look at him. “He’s a lord. Not like us lowborn. He likes his boycunts clean.” He took one step further, smile widening at the splash of water as Alaric flinched. He made a show of breathing in the perfumed air. Magnolia, his own scent. “I miss you already, Highness. Clean or no.” He threw the apple up in the air, and it landed with a splash in the bathtub. “But no matter. You’ll be down in that dungeon soon enough. And you’ll be mine again.”

“I think it is best you left, Captain.” Alaric’s voice was cold and forceful.

Ambrose bowed. “As your Highness commands.” He rose up smiling, and walked out.

And Alaric had just stopped crying.

_______________

The library was massive, bigger than any he had ever seen. Rows and rows of books, peppered with the occasional table or desk, one could lose days on end in here. Waiting, he just sat there, lost in thought, knowing this would be his new home. His family’s castle tended by his brother and sister, he was given the jewel of the Southern Kingdoms. He had earned it. Few would have the honour of ruling a territory that was once a kingdom and certainly none his age.

His train of thought was interrupted at the arrival of Greta, the scullery maid. She had cleaned herself, tying back her long hair with a ribbon. Pretty young thing, and from the scene in the dining hall, fiery too. She curtsied awkwardly, as if unaccustomed to the gesture. She then bowed her head and greeted him, “Your High Lordship.”

His beard would not have allowed the slight upturn on the corners of his mouth at her ridiculous title for him. “Come closer, Greta. Sit.”

When she sat at the table she looked around the table’s contents, eyeing the books which looked to have been there since they were last read. She then looked at him, wearily. “You summoned me, High Lordship?”

This time he actually huffed, amusedly. “Greta, who taught you to call me these things?”

She looked at him, confused. “Horace said we weren’t to call you anything else. His Lordship, High Lord Duncan.”

“You may call me Duncan, Greta.”

Her eyes widened. “I can’t call you by your name!”

“My name is not Duncan, Greta. I am THE Duncan. It’s my family title.”

Greta looked down, still confused. “So what are you? What do I call you? I don’t want to offend. You must tell me so I don’t offend.”

“Greta,” he said, firmly but reassuringly. “I am a high lord. You may call me Your Lordship, or Lord Duncan. No need for anything else.”

Greta nodded. She also suddenly smiled. “So what IS your name?”

The Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Not one you need to worry about.”

Instantly, she looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry, your lordship, I meant no offence.”

“It’s alright, Greta. I wanted to speak with you about something. Maybe you can help me?”

Greta’s shoulders straightened when he asked for her help. “Of course, milord.”

He looked her in the eye, conveying the seriousness of his questioning. “I want you to tell me what happened with the prince and the Royal Guard.”

Greta’s eyes widened. “Why do you want to know?”

“Greta. You must tell me.”

She swallowed. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Who?”

“His Highness.”

“I won’t. Now, tell me.”

Greta paused for a while, as if struggling with how to start. He was growing impatient but he knew that pressuring or frightening her would deprive him of what he wanted. She finally spoke, “We couldn’t stop them. There were so many, and they were all so strong. The Royal Guard are special soldiers, you know. They’re more special than the war soldiers or the police soldiers. They can fight really really well. And it was just us staff, standing in their way. There was another stable boy, Reggie. That’s Freddie’s older brother. He was strong like them. And when he tried to defend his Highness, they killed him. Butchered him. Cut him down and made his Highness and all the staff watch. That made his Highness stop struggling. They’d gone to his rooms that night. He’d just given me a lesson. He was so tired but he still gave me time.” He noticed that she sounded wistful whenever she mentioned his kindness. “But they went into his rooms and hurt him.” She stopped.

“Then what happened, Greta?”

She swallowed and nodded, as if to agree to continue. “Some of the Royal Guard didn’t agree with what Captain Ambrose was doing. They killed them too, except for their blacksmith and doctor. They were really good, so they didn’t want to kill them. They took his Highness to the dungeons with the blacksmith and the doctor. They put him in his own cell. They wouldn’t let anyone get in to see him or help him. They beat poor Horace when he tried, and his wife too.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I...” she swallowed and looked at him almost guiltily. “I snuck in sometimes when they forbade Horace to go back down there.” She then stuck her chin up, as if indignant at Duncan’s judgement, even though there was none. “They wasn’t feeding him. They was hurting him.” She then deflated. “They was...” She paused. “They was.. you know.”

Duncan nodded. “I see.”

“So many of them too. Six or seven a day. Then Ambrose stopped it after a while. Said only he could do it from now on. They could still beat him though. Bastards did too. Like they was getting their jollies with it.”

“Tell me about this Ambrose.”

“He was nice, a long time ago. Him and his Highness were even friendly, some. Til one day he propositioned the prince. Can you imagine, the cheek of him! His Highness wasn’t unkind about it. He put him down gently. See, Captain Ambrose didn’t just want to bed the prince. He wanted him all to himself. And his Highness couldn’t do that. He was a prince, after all. And besides... Ambrose ain’t so nice, milord. His Highness didn’t want to believe he was rotten... jealous... scheming... fucking snake...”

He interrupted her. “Greta?”

“Sorry, milord. He didn’t to believe it. He believes it now.” She paused and there was a heavy silence. “No one could sleep that first night.” She looked up at him and he noticed her eyes were moist. “The prince is soft spoken, you see. We’d never heard him scream before. After that night, all we heard was screaming down there. Then the screaming got quieter and quieter. No one should get used to the way they treated him.”

There was another silence, where neither so much as looked at the other. “May I go, milord?”

Duncan nodded. “You may. Thank you, Greta.”

Greta stopped at the door and turned around. “Lord Duncan?”

Duncan looked at her. “Yes, Greta?”

“Are you as scary as people say?”

Duncan looked down then back up, amused. “I can be.”

“Are you a good fighter?”

“Some would say so, yes.” More like all.

“So you killed loads of people?”

He nodded. “Many, yes.”

“I read stories about knights as handsome as you. Are you like them?”

Lord Duncan sobered. “No. Don’t believe the stories, girl. They could not be farther from the truth.”

She curtsied. “Milord.”

______________

He stood outside the prince’s room, smelling a flowery scent as soon as he neared it. He knocked on the door. A raspy voice told him to come in.

He opened the door to a room adorned in turquoise. Makes sense. If he had to pick a colour for Price Alaric, it would be blue or green, so why not both. Standing, with his back to him in ill-fitting clothes, was a figure utterly dissimilar to the one he saw in the dining hall. Golden hair clean and gleaming, the maids had pulled it back into a loose bun, showing the pale nape of his neck, hair ending in a delicate triangular tip.

“Prince Alaric,” his voice was clear, and he made sure, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to alarm.

The prince whirled around, placing his hand on the dresser behind him so he would not fall. His face was alarmed, understandably, and his breathing had quickened. “Lord...” his voice had come out a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat. “Lord..?”

“Duncan.”

The prince nodded, looking down. “Lord Duncan.” He looked to be trying to control his breathing and attempting to calm himself down. He then opened the string holding the top of his shirt open, revealing a chest full of scattered bruises and even a fading but distinct bite mark, and took a deep breath as if to calm and encourage himself. His hand gracefully exposed one of his shoulders, showing a long uninterrupted neck, and another bite mark on his shoulder. He walked towards the Duncan, all the while not looking at him, and placed a shaking hand on his chest.

“I-if...” he began to whisper. “If you must ra..” his voice gave out, as if he were in pain. “If you must...” He looked up at Duncan, eyes moist and sorrowful, conveying what he means as he could not utter the word. “Please... don’t beat my face.”

In all his years on the battlefield and in conquest, he had seen monstrous things. Never had he seen the like of this, however, and it took all of his gumption not to show his real surprise. “Please don’t be alarmed, Princeling. I am not here for that.”

The prince dropped his hands and shrugged. “Why else would you come see me for? I am not so delusional as to not expect such treatment, looking the way I do. And you would not be the first to take liberties with my body.”

“Yes, Greta has informed me of the Royal Guard’s actions.”

The prince shook his head and answered wistfully. “He was not the first either.” His shoulders slumped. “I won’t struggle. I’ve learned.”

“I am not here to rape you, Princeling.”

“Can’t rape the willing.”

“You’re not willing, Alaric.”

The prince’s head shot up at someone daring to use his name, but then remembered that he was no longer entitled to that indignation. The Duncan firmly said, “I apologise, Prince Alaric. I should not have been so familiar.”

In reality, Duncan wanted to be more than familiar. The prince, even in the dining hall, in the state in which he was, stirred in him feelings he could not explain. He did indeed want him. He wanted to take him now, ravish him. He wanted to debauch the young prince and make the proud but broken beauty bend to his will and declare that he is the possession of Lord Duncan, the new Warden of Stygia. It took all his will not to tear his clothes off him and claim the prince for his own, particularly after the prince lay that shaking hand on his chest. The prince’s hands were ice cold. But he did not think the cold was the reason he was shaking. It was fear. The proud prince was afraid. And who could blame him? The stories about Duncan would frighten the bravest of knights. And it was within his right to take him for his own. The prince was part of his conquest. He had bedded conquests before, albeit none as broken or beautiful as Prince Alaric.

“Did you... fight my brothers, my lord?” Alaric asked, wearily.

Duncan cleared his throat. “I did. And your father too. They died valiantly. With honour.”

Alaric nodded but said nothing.

“We should sit. Talk.”

“Yes, of course. This way.” The prince led him to a wooden table, deeper in the room. He sat and pointed to the chair opposite him. His princely graces and mannerisms were untouched, even after all that had happened to him. He had not waited for who was effectively his new master to sit but waited for him nonetheless.

“Prince Alaric,” he began. “I am here because I want you to help me.”

The prince was taken aback. “Help you? What with?”

“I am not good at this. I was competent at it at home, the few months in the year I was there. But Stygia is very new to me. It is not new to you. I have spoken with Horace. He says you always ran the castle and some of the treasury for your father since you were a boy.”

The prince nodded. “I did, yes.”

“I want you to continue doing so.”

Prince Alaric sat back and instantly winced. “You want me to be your vizier?”

“My what?”

“It means minister. In the language of the Eastern Continents.”

“You speak their language?” Duncan was genuinely surprised. The Eastern Continents were a world away.

“I speak many languages, my lord. Albeit with a variety of fluencies. I meant to ask if you wanted me to be your minister. For castle matters, that is.”

“I do indeed. I cannot, for now, think of one better suited for the matter. You will have free reign within the castle...”

“But not out of it.”

“No, not out of it.” He looked at the prince evenly. “You are the last son of King Frederick, princeling, I cannot allow it.”

“I understand. I am thankful to be out that dungeon. And I should be thankful I am not in shackles.” Duncan felt a stirring in his loins at the mental image of the prince in golden shackles, attaching him to his bed. He waved the thought aside. For now.

“If you should need me, I will be making use of the study, after I have sufficiently explored the castle and assessed what needs to be done. And,” he paused to pointedly look at the prince. “I’m sure Greta would be very excited at the continuing of her lessons. If you should have the time, of course.”

Although there was no joy or humour in it, Prince Alaric’s ghostly smile was still breathtaking. “Greta. Sweet girl.”

“Brave too.”

“Indeed.”

There was a silence for a few moments. “Prince Alaric.”

The prince looked up, as if Duncan had interrupted his train of thought. “You are under my protection. You will be accosted no longer.”

That ghostly smile returned. “Can wardens be protectors?”

The Duncan’s face was firm. “In this case, he can be. And is. I do not presume to be good, princeling. And things have greatly changed for you. I plan on being here for a long time and so does my king. It would do me no good to alienate you and the local populace, who are clearly still loyal to your family.” He stood up and neared the prince, who instantly looked alarmed. He gently grabbed his chin and made the prince look him in the eyes. “I am good at killing, but I do not particularly enjoy it. And I despair at the thought of having to kill you. It would be a waste.” A crime, he thought, to kill something this beautiful. He let go of his chin.

“Captain Ambrose, by order of his Majesty, will stay in his position. The king wants to reward him for his... assistance.”

“I understand.”

“I could not persuade him otherwise. He betrayed his sworn King and harmed his son. He cannot be trusted.”

Alaric looked up, eyes narrowed. “Why are you being kind to me?”

“Am I? Being kind, I mean.”

“Well, it is unexpected, your behaviour. I am sure you understand.”

“Because I haven’t taken you against your will? Or beaten you bloody? Is that what you think kindness is?”

“They call you a demon. I’ve yet to see any demon-like behaviour from you.”

“You have not yet done anything to make me unkind. Make sure you keep it that way. I have quite the temper. Appeal to my practicality.”

And with that, he left the room, not waiting for the prince to reply.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! I wished to get this out sooner, but some work came up. Chapter 4 may take a bit of time, but it shouldn’t be more than a week, but subscribe, just in case. Like I said, my schedule is convoluted and random. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy and comment! I love hearing you guys’ feedback.

Standing in the library, which more than anywhere has always been his home, made him feel almost happy. He mused to himself that he may never be happy again, but being back in here, the smell of knowledge in the air, may be the closest he’ll ever get. Alaric was putting back the books that were on the table where he left them that day. The day they came for him. It was the last time here was here. It was the last time, he suspected, that anyone was here. It was a sanctuary here, between the rows of books. A sanctuary that was about to be invaded. Alaric felt a presence, a breath on his neck.

“Has he fucked you yet?” The low voice coming from behind him was close and familiar. He also recognised the hot breath on his neck. Ambrose.

The captain did not touch him, but he could feel the prince shaking in fear and alarm. He could not be blamed for he was cornered by his tormentor. He sniffed the prince’s hair dramatically.

“No, I don’t think he has. You still smell like me, under all that magnolia. Commendable, that Lord Duncan. To resist you for a half a day, when you are so helpless and under his power. I could not have resisted. I **_did_** not resist. But...” he got closer, and his next words were biting and cruel. “There’s still tonight. He might come to you tonight. Hold you down. Stuff your mouth with your own sheets, so you wouldn’t pretend to scream, like you don’t like being taken like the whore you are. And fuck you until you can scream no longer. Until you are as accustomed to his cock in you as you were to mine. Subdued. Princely arrogance dead and buried.”

He laughed at the prince’s hyperventilating breaths, and continued. “And no matter when he fucks you, and he **_will_** , you and him will always know I had you first. You belong to me, Highness. You always have. And all I have to do is wait for him to tire of you. Could be a few months, could be a year, but he will tire of the haughty, arrogant, stretched out whore you’ve become and he will give you back to me.”

“I belong to no one, Ambrose.” The prince hissed.

He heard a chuckle behind him. “Oh, you don’t think I own you? Are you telling me that I do not reside in that pretty head of yours?”

He then suddenly grabbed the prince’s hair and pulled his head back, earning him a satisfying terrified yelp. He could finally see the terrified eyes, the beautiful heterochromic eyes, that he loved so very much. “I waited years to have you. What’s a few more months? And that month down there... it should do for a while. But I am far from satiated from you, Highness. No, I won’t tire of you for a very... very long time.”

He then shoved Alaric onto the books, taking the time to roughly fondle his ass and hip before walking away, flustered and clearly aroused.

_________________

With a maid warming his bed, the Duncan’s sleep still eluded him. He found a pretty young thing who brought in his linens and seemed to accept his advances. Soon, it mattered not, as he made her moan with pleasures he did not think she even knew. She was pleasantly surprised when he put his head between her legs. But now she lay asleep beside him, and he still could not capture the elusive dreams he had hoped he was tired enough to witness. He could not be blamed. It was a strange bed, in a strange room, in a strange castle, in a strange land. But he had slept in strange places before. He learned as a young soldier, like all other soldiers, that he must learn to sleep anywhere. Lack of sleep was as much a killer as an armed enemy. But still sleep eluded him. He tried to remember his mother’s voice, lulling him to sleep with a lullaby he knew by heart and even found himself humming it along with the memory playing in his head. He stopped when he heard the young woman beside him stir, clearly, even in her sleep, hearing the low voice emanating from his chest. He closed his eyes, once again attempting to sleep. But his luck would not allow it, for the moment he closed his eyes, a scream made them open, wide. Standing up in record speed, grabbed his cutlass, ignoring his nakedness, and ran out to find the source of the scream. Stepping out into the stone hallway, he could scarce see anything other than the light materialising at the end of the hallway, which he soon realised was Horace, in his night shirt, carrying a torch.

Duncan strode towards Horace, hissing at him to tell him the matter. Horace bypassed him and and kept walking towards a closed door... Alaric’s door. He heard the old man’s frustrated quip through gritted teeth. “I knew this would happen.” Duncan then thought for a moment. The servant quarters were on the other side of the castle. How did Horace get here so quick?

Entering the room after Horace, cutlass still in hand, he saw the old man approach a frantic but clearly sleeping figure. Prince Alaric, long shirt barely covering his bruised and cut legs, thrashed, sobbing and occasionally screaming, affected by whatever horrific nightmare in which he was stuck. He watched Horace attempted to place a soothing hand on the prince’s forehead and whisper a comforting word, maybe even wake him. At the first touch, Alaric started so violently, he had almost thrown himself from the bed. Horace soothing him as he opened his eyes, Alaric’s face was frantic as if not expecting to be where he is right now. He could not determine how Horace’s soothing would have ended up, for it was violently dashed onto the rocks when Prince Alaric’s eyes found Duncan’s naked figure, coming to the only conclusion to which a man of his level of pain and suffering could have come.

He tearfully looked at Horace’s kind face and whispered, sobbing, “Have you sold me as well, old boy?”

Horace was momentarily confused, following Alaric’s eyes behind him, eyes widening at the large, naked, cutlass-wielding figure in the doorway. Horace moved impressively quick for such an old man, grabbing a big piece of cloth, a blanket, from the adjacent table, the same table at which Duncan and Alaric sat, and held it up to the Lord, covering as much of the larger man’s body as he could. He whispered, eyes pleading, “My lord, I beg you to cover your nakedness.”

Duncan’s face took a few moments to show signs of realisation at why the man was asking him to cover something of which he had never been ashamed. As he covered himself, he wondered, and in the same thought understood, why the prince was so convinced that Duncan would mistreat him. Duncan was capable of great anger and great harm, he admitted, but he had never displayed such intentions here, not once since he arrived in Stygia. Tired of warfare and in want of rest and peace of mind, he had arrived intending to achieve that and little else. Having established order with his arrival, he had thought it came time for his coveted peace of mind. But alas, he has yet to find it, instead finding a broken prince for whom he found in himself worry and a desperate need to conquer. But he understood, and understood well, that knowing the betrayers of the young prince were know to him, having sworn their allegiance and in Ambrose’s case, their friendship to Alaric and his family, what chance did he, a conquering stranger, have in convincing the prince of his honour and conduct?

“Horace, he might hurt himself. Mayhap it could be useful to bind...” He did not get the chance to say the word ‘gently’ before an unearthly shriek stopped him.

“NO!” Duncan looked in the direction of the shriek and found the prince in his knees, hands together, as if begging the gods. “Pleasepleaseplease, don’t. I won’t make any noise, I swear. See? See?!” He then put both his hands on his mouth, lowering his eyes and making himself small, sobbing into his hands harshly.

Horace, clearly heartbroken, looked at Duncan. “My lord, I ask, beg, you, don’t treat him so. I have called the doctor for a sedative, a calming potion. It will help him sleep. Would that satisfy my lord?”

“Yes, Horace. I do not mean to mistreat him. I merely want to stop him hurting himself. We bound injured soldiers on the battlefield. For their own good.” Duncan had never gone through so much effort to make clear his intentions. He usually cared very little. But something about anyone comparing him to the monstrous actions of the Royal Guard, rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

He looked back at the prince who was looking at him, in tearful, eager hope. “I’m quiet, yes? See? I can be quiet. No need to put my sheets in my mouth? Please? Please?!” The prince’s sobbing worsened progressively at the Duncan’s failure to answer. But what can he say? What can anyone say?

The doctor then walked in, bowing to Duncan as he fiddled with his apothecary chest. Horace then looked him and, accented by the clanging of the doctor’s potion bottles, mouthed a ‘thank you’ as he held the prince’s sobbing head. They nodded to each other, in understanding, and the Duncan walked out, the sound of sobbing diminishing as he walked back to his new chambers. Soon, the sobbing would stop and he would gently shake the maid in his bed awake. She was groggy at first but eagerly got to work on his cock. But all he could think of was the prince . He thought to himself, as he looked at the head of the delicate young woman between his legs. Why are you not blonde?

_______________

He did not wish to embarrass the headstrong girl. This was his reason for not stepping out and comforting her as she cried outside the library. She had come in to return a book and saw him, instantly running to embrace him. She apologised, tears already forming in her eyes, for her perceived impropriety. Before she could even finish the apology, he pulled her back to an even tighter embrace. She was a nobody, she thought, a scullery maid. But she knew that her embrace meant something, a great deal, to her prince. There had never been pain in her arms for him, and nothing but admiration in her eyes. And so he was safe. She offered a safety that was rare to him. And her chest swelled with pride that she could offer him that safety. She was also normalcy. This is how it used to be. He was her mentor, her teacher. A knight of knowledge and enlightenment in the darkness of her meagre existence. And now she could offer something back. Love and safety, as well as loyalty and friendship. He asked her to sit with him for a quick lesson, and he found himself smiling at how much she talked. He could barely get a word in. She talked about Jenny, the other scullery maid, whose son just took his first steps. She reassured him that Freddie the stable boy, named for his father King Frederick, would soon get over his shyness to sneak away and come see him. She made him promise that he will command Horace not to punish Freddie should he be caught in the castle with his muddy clothes. He sorrowfully quipped in his mind... Command. You sweet girl, I command nothing now. Not even myself.

She then went on to the topic of the mysterious new lord and it did not register on her demeanour or diatribe that his face instantly fell. She spoke of how frighteningly calm he is, how his name is not really Duncan, and how she wished to never see his anger, for even though she did not yet see it, it frightened her. He was like her father, she quipped. Calm men have anger in them that is explosive and unsettling, and not much can coax it out of them. She talked about how, until the day her father died, she had only seen him angry a handful of times. In the end, there was not much time for an actual lesson. He merely chose another book for her, told her to read it thoroughly, and bid her a good day. She nodded with a tight smile and without pomp or ceremony, crisply walked out. She heard her break down outside, sobbing and not caring if anyone heard her. No one had ever cried for him, because of him, or about him like she had before. And while he appreciated it, he was also forlorn at the pity such a gesture represented. He was broken and everyone could see it.

________________

Duncan found himself drawn to the library and was thinking of any reason to enter it. When Horace brought him the books and budgeting ledgers that morning, he finally had his reason. Taking them in his arms, he walked the short distance and saw a sobbing Greta walking away, book in hand. What was it with Stygia and tears? He understood the sorrow at being conquered. But there was a learned melancholy to this place, as if civilisation was the reason the mirth was steadily seeping from Stygia’s inhabitants.

He entered the library without knocking and put the books on the table in front of the prince, who had not looked up, assuming he was a member of staff. It was not until he spoke the prince’s name, did his head shoot up, almost in alarm and then back down in shame.

Slowly standing up and giving a curt and stiff bow, he greeted Lord Duncan, “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good day, Prince Alaric. It is noon already. Time seems to get lost in musty old papers, doesn’t it?” He was actually making small talk. Small talk! If his mother could see him now, after she had admonished him so many times for being blunt and brisk with all the maidens at court.

“Yes, my lord. These books have long been unattended to. One can lose themselves in them. And all the better, when one has little purpose.” He wished that last part sounded less bitter, but he could not help himself. He still had not the courage to look up at the larger man. Certainly not after last night.

Sensing a long pause slowly turning into an awkward one, Duncan started on his excuse to come to the library. “Horace brought in the new ledgers this morning. I thought I would deliver them to you.”

The prince became animated and circled the table, coming to stand near Duncan, alarmingly near, and instantly opening the ledgers to the desired pages. The Duncan’s nostrils were treated to the bespoke scent of magnolia emanating from the prince and only awakened from his lustful stupor at the surprisingly clinical voice saying, “Thank the Gods, they haven’t run the castle into the ground. The coffers are still near full. I’ll still have to pour over these all day. I..” he paused, eyes closing in frustration, as if he had just remembered something. And he has.

“My lord, I must regularly bother you today. My... signature is no longer valid. You will need to sign off on most papers going out.”

The Duncan felt a sliver of excitement, and its source was unknown. His cock? His brain? His heart, even? He could have authorised Prince Alaric’s signature, as he wholeheartedly trusted him. But he stopped himself. He wanted the prince to defer to him. It was a malignant feeling creeping into his heart. The prince was competent and clever, and was more than capable of having the responsibility of a recognised signature. But a part of Duncan wanted the prince to be subservient, to be controlled by him. And besides, why would he rob himself of a reason where the prince would have to seek him out, instead of the other way around?

“It would be no bother at all, Highness.”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“Why? Is that not your honourific?”

“I am... no longer a prince. I don’t think so, anyway.” Ambrose’s voice rang in his head. _Prince no longer. Nothing but a whore. Once the kingdom serviced you. Now your cunt services the kingdom._

“You will always be a prince, Alaric.” The prince looked up at the Lord’s voice, firm, gentle, but also matter-of-fact, as if he were saying something so obvious, it need not have been said.

“Thank you, my lord. I... will come to see you in some time.”

Duncan nodded and turned around to walk out. He was stopped by the prince’s voice. “Lord Duncan?”

Duncan felt his turn was too fast. “Yes?”

“I... apologise for my conduct last night. I did not mean to wake or disturb you. I was... not myself.” The prince’s shoulders were hunched but his tone could freeze the sea. Gone was the animated prince, panicked and afraid, from last night. What replaced him, Duncan realised, was a shrewd, cold, and competent young man, who was a world away from the frightened young man that begged and pleaded for him not to bind him.

“No apologies needed. I trust you had a better time sleeping after that?”

“Yes, my lord. I was well-taken-care of.”

Duncan nodded again. “If there is nothing else.” At Alaric’s head shake, he walked out, this time uninterrupted.

_____________

As promised, Prince Alaric came in for his first set of signatures. Duncan wanted to just sign them, get them over with. He knew he could add nothing new or useful to a system the young man had perfected. But he still skimmed them, looking at Alaric’s beautiful and neat penmanship, as well as the intricate detail of his work when it came to balancing the ledgers and castle affairs. This was a system and Alaric was good at it. He then signed his name and handed the prince back his papers. Prince Alaric looked at the papers in passing and paused. The signature did not say Duncan. In fact, it was nigh indecipherable.

“My Lord?” Alaric knew he should not be so inquisitive, but he could not help himself.

“Yes?” Duncan looked up, as if surprised to hear the prince calling him.

“This signature... is it recognisable?”

“Ah yes...”

“Greta told me your name was not Duncan.” Alaric looked almost guilty about that fact.

There was a twitch at the corner of Duncan’s mouth. “Yes, she was quite curious about that. My family title. My name is not Duncan. I am THE Duncan. It is what the head of my family is called.”

Alaric nodded politely. “Of course, my Lord.” He turned around to leave and this time, it was his departure that was interrupted.

“Rolf.”

Alaric turned around, as if he misheard. “My Lord?”

“My name. It’s Rolf.”

“I promise not to tell Greta your secret, my Lord.” As he walked out, he asked himself if he was imagining the low chuckle that followed him.

Duncan almost smiled at the retreating figure, graceful and princely, even after all that had transpired. And he looked back at the young woman sobbing and walking away from the library. Greta felt more for Alaric than wide-eyed admiration. And Rolf was very sure of why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a warning, for those who haven’t read my stuff before. Fluff is aplenty but that means very little in my stories lol. There will be pain, and lots of it. And things always get worse before they get better. This is a dark story.
> 
> Anyhow, visit me on tumblr and let’s talk!
> 
> Damienscull.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Sorry for the delay, life is an absolute porn hooker.
> 
> Please enjoy this hot mess and comment please!
> 
> Also, I highly suggest subscribing, as my posting schedule is absolute dogshit.

After the 4th time Alaric knocked on the study door, Duncan resolved to do something. While he liked it that way, the trips to the study had to be annoying the young prince. And besides, he liked having the prince around him even better. He looked at Alaric’s face. The bruises on his face were beginning to fade and his clothes were less ill-fitting than before. It was still obvious they were not his, but he hardly had to reposition his shirt onto his shoulder anymore. And good thing too. The bruises on his body, and especially those gnarly bite marks, made it very hard to look at Alaric. And Alaric should never be hard to look at.

Alaric tensed when the some of the Royal Guard came in with the table from the library and avoided looking at anything but the floor. There were 4 of them, for it was a heavy oak desk. They said nothing as they set the desk in its desired place, but the energy in the room, heavy and tense, was palpable. Duncan thanked them curtly and asked them to leave. He watched instantly as the tension seeped from the young prince’s body, but also noticed, Alaric’s guard was still up. In fact, Alaric’s guard was always up. Again, he could not blame him. Being in the same castle, let alone the same room, as the numerous men who spent a month causing and enjoying his torment cannot be easy. But the prince said not a word. He did not call, or beg, for their dismissal or punishment. He just... got on with his duties.

Alaric’s presence in the room, save for the rustle of paper and the occasional interruption, changed very little. However, Duncan soon noticed that the prince had a calming presence. There was a sereneness to the room, an almost audible one, when he was in it. Duncan was certain it was his affinity for the prince that had this effect. But it was undeniable that the sun shone brighter and the breeze caressed him lighter than when Alaric was not in the room. He could not help stealing a few looks during the day, when he tired of all this reading. He felt it important to know the history of Stygia. But there was a part of Stygia he wanted to know more than anything else.

“Princeling?” He said.

Alaric’s head shot up, as if Duncan had awakened him from a daydream. “Yes, my lord?”

“Why is Stygia called so?” Duncan did not care what the answer was. It was simply a way to have Alaric talk to him. He could, of course, force the prince. But he did not want to show his hand to him. Yet.

“Ah, well,” Alaric seemed taken aback by the question, clearly not expecting it. “Long ago, the first men to inhabit this place noticed that, in all the kingdoms, far and wide, there were no areas with nights darker than this one. The blackest skies, the moon only showing on one night, when it’s full. Nights are... quite dark in Stygia.”

Duncan nodded. “I see.” The corner of his lips twitched. “Thank you.”

Alaric did not quite smile, but his face noticeably relaxed, and his eyes widened. “Lord Duncan.. is tonight a full moon?”

Duncan’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”

Alaric nodded, and looked down at his work. “Thank you.” Nothing was said after that.

________________

Alaric was holding his torch. Very few people knew of these secret tunnels. They went beneath the castle. He knew he was taking a huge risk, but he must. And besides.. he will come right back. He could not survive out there anyway. His eyes made him instantly recognisable. He hoped the supplies were ready, as he neared the mouth of the final tunnel.

Suddenly, there was a rough hand in his hair. “Where doth the whore go this night?”

Ambrose yanked him back and he ended up sprawled on the floor, Ambrose’s hand still in his hair. He dropped the torch and yelped as Ambrose slapped him, feeling his lip bleeding already. “Come with me, little princeling. Let’s see what the demon will do to you.”

Ambrose almost smiled as he dragged a sobbing Alaric back to his room, by nothing but his hair.

______________

Duncan heard a commotion as he prepared for bed. It was not late but it had been a long day so he had retired early. He did not tuck his shirt back in as he left his room, walking towards the source of the commotion. Alaric’s room. Another nightmare?

Entering, he saw 4 of the Royal Guard standing over a hogtied prince, with the Captain just finishing up the binding. He then looked at the prince, who was struggling, barely able to move, and looked to be almost convulsing. He rushed over when he found why. The young prince’s sobs had clogged his nose, joining the blood that seeped from his nostrils, which seemed to be a result of a beating. They had gagged him, tightly, the piece of cloth stretching his jaw further than that day in the dining hall. Fresh marks appeared on his body, which Duncan now noticed was naked.

“He can’t breathe!” Everyone got out of his way, as he attempted to get the gag out of the sobbing young man’s mouth. When he managed to dislodge the gag out his mouth, Alaric took a deep breath, releasing a myriad of harsh sobs after.

“Caught him in the tunnels, your lordship. Trying to run.” It was not Ambrose that spoke, but another of the Royal Guard. Ambrose was standing in the corner. Watching intently.

Alaric breathed, “No, no. No, I w—,” he was sobbing too hard to finish. And besides, hardly anyone heard him.

“What tunnels?” Duncan asked.

“There are tunnels beneath the castle. Secret tunnels.”

“Why was I not told about them?” Duncan said, firmly. “Why?!” He barked, when no one answered.

“We’re sorry, Your Lordship.”

Duncan looked at Alaric, who was, in spite of his painful position, trying to look him in the eye. He looked at the prince’s binding and knew it was painful. He lifted Alaric onto his knees and leaned him onto a wall. As he assessed his injuries, he spoke to the Guard. “And this is how you chose to handle the situation?”

“H-he was running, your Lordship.”

Alaric shook his head, still breathing out his No’s, sobbingly.

“Everybody out. I will handle this.”

“Would you like us to punish him, your Lordship?”

“I said OUT!” He barked again, and they quickly left.

He looked at the sobbing prince. “Alaric...”

“I-I wasn’t trying to run. I swear it.” He said, crying and hiccuping after every word.

“What were you doing?” Duncan paused. “Was I wrong to trust you?”

Alaric looked to one side and shook his head. “Please... untie me.”

“First, answer my question.” Duncan’s voice was matter-of-fact and calm, countering the utter turmoil inside him.

“Please. I am in pain.” The twine did indeed look like it was digging into the prince’s flesh.

“From what I know, in this moment, you deserve to be.” He grabbed the younger man’s chin and looked into his eyes, seeing hate and mistrust seep into them. There was no venom, but there was hurt in the prince’s eyes. “Answer. My. Question.”

“I was doing the census.” Alaric’s voice was wet with tears.

“What is this census?” Duncan did not let go of Alaric’s chin.

“Every full moon, we go out to ask... what is short...”

Duncan used his sleeve to wipe some blood from the young man’s face, a gesture he still was not sure he deserved, yet. But he so wished Alaric was no snake.

“Food is bound to be scarce in these times.”

Duncan did not raise his voice. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You think me a liar, barbarian?” The fire in Alaric’s coloured eyes was unexpected. And bloody magnificent. The passion, along with the tears, made his blue eye bluer and his green eye greener. Those eyes were very hard to ignore. 

Duncan ignored the jab, still keeping his voice calm. “You could not go in the daytime?”

“Pride. No family wants to be known to take charity. Not many go out at night in Stygia, Lord Duncan. We have the blackest nights.”

“Why would the Royal Guard accuse you of trying to escape?”

Alaric looked down, his voice turning quiet. “I don’t ask why they do things anymore.” He paused then looked up again. “Check the ledgers. There are records going back years. Times where my father himself went out.”

Duncan paused to think and found Alaric’s words to ring true. He went into the hall, finding large vases where the Stygians kept water. He filled a small pot and went back into the room. He set it in front of Alaric. Alaric moaned as he was freed from the hellish hogtie, massaging his wrists as Duncan cleaned the blood off his face with a wet cloth. 

“I believe you, Prince Alaric. But you still tried to leave the castle without my permission.” He looked at the prince. “I cannot allow that to happen. I must punish you.”

Alaric’s breath quickened and he began to shrink into the wall, the wall not allowing him to back away. Wall behind him, Duncan before him. What was he to do?

“They beat me already.”

“And they should not have.” Duncan sounded frustrating calm. “But there are consequences to disobeying me, Highness. I know it might take some getting used to. You are not accustomed to being this... restricted. But obey you must. Especially after my generosity.”

Alaric looked away, mouth frowning in sorrow, refusing to look at Duncan, who grabbed his wrist and gently but firmly stood him up and quickly bent him over his knee. Realising what was happening, and the humiliation he was about to endure, Alaric protested, trying to stand up from the awkward position he was in. Duncan put a quick stop to that, holding both his wrists at the small of his back, keeping him there. 

There was unholy delight for Duncan, in the yelps of pain he forced out of Alaric with every strike. He struck hard, wanting a memorable lesson to cement itself in Alaric’s mind. Duncan did not hold back, nor could he have held back. He sensed that an ear or two had stood to hear the consequences of the prince’s actions. And he wanted it clear that disobedience was not to be tolerated, even as he regretted this beating with every strike. He stopped after a while, when he knew for sure that the spanking was to be a memorable and bruising one. He wanted the prince to remember him every time he sat tomorrow. 

Duncan helped the prince stand up, whose subjugated stance was countered by his scowl and his refusal to look at Duncan. But the prince was subdued. For now. “You should be thankful I hadn’t my strap with me this time. Next time, it’ll be that. And if you disobey again after that it’ll be the whip. If you keep at it, I’ll put you in shackles.... don’t make me whip you, highness.” His voice was weary. 

Duncan paused and continued, his voice not unkind, “Next time you want to do this census... just tell me, alright? I’ll sort it.”

The venom in Alaric’s voice was understandable but it still pained Duncan to hear it. “Must I ask a barbarian’s permission for everything?”

Tired of hearing himself be called a barbarian by a man he craved so, he shot up out of his chair grabbing both of Alaric’s wrists before he could react in fear, and pinning him to the wall, holding both wrists in an iron grip on both sides of the prince’s head. Alaric’s eyes filled with alarm and he tried to free himself, unable to move an inch. He soon ceased his struggles, breathing heavily and looking, alarmed, at the stone faced man in front of him. He was the Duncan’s prisoner. 

Duncan neared him, both their eyes still locked on the other. Duncan would taste his breath, smell his magnolia-scented skin, and see the delicate curve of his long, pale neck. He wanted desperately to taste those pink, succulent lips, electing instead for a deep and velvety whisper, “Yes, Princeling. You do.” 

And with that, he let go of Alaric’s wrists, striding our is his chambers in frustration. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on tumblr and talk to me, because I love talking to you good peoples about what a sick sick puppy I am!
> 
> Damienscull.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Long time no see. This was supposed to be a hella long chapter but since I was so busy (life, work, family, shit tonne of mental health issues), I wanted to get this to you so I split the chapter. Hopefully I’ll have my shit together soon and I can get more chapters to you soon. 
> 
> Please comment as it literally makes me cry with happiness, and subscribe because I am an uneven poster of content and my schedule is ass.

By the time Alaric woke up the next morning, his eyes were redder than his ass. There was still a dull ache on his cheeks, but no sting. But he had cried. Cried at the humiliation of being punished like a boy. He had not been treated such since he was a child and even then it was his father that disciplined him. He was a prince, after all and only a royal can punish a royal. It was better for him than his brothers. Alaric was not a mischievous child and it was rare for him to be disciplined. But he stopped himself in his tracks. No matter the minimal respect Duncan had been giving him, he was a prince no longer. But behind the sobs of a humiliated prince, there was a smooth relief. He had not been dealt the violation promised to him by Ambrose. In his mind, as he was being dragged back to his room, he imagined horrors not unlike the ones he suffered in the palace dungeons. And he would be powerless to stop any of that pain. The terror in him so great he could scarce speak, he felt a hidden elation when Duncan merely punished him for attempting to carry out the census. And a subjugated smugness as he looked at the faces of the Royal Guard when they realised that his screams would not be heard that night. 

But all in all, the humiliation was greater, having to obey and being punished if he did otherwise. Duncan was right. This was not easy and was not about to get easier. He was accustomed to doing things with an abandon that signified the near-absolute power he possessed. Power he possessed no longer. If he wanted to leave the castle, all he had to do was do that. Now he must ask the permission of his conquerer to do most things, a conquerer who was generous enough not to chain him up and throw away the key. Or worse, just do away with him altogether. Dead princes are even less trouble.

A knock at the door startled him and made him remember the bruising as a result Ambrose’s strikes from last night. He breathed a “Come in” and in walked a maid asking him to the office. Duncan is calling for him. He quickly but stiffly changed, not allowing the maid to help him, and left the office.

Duncan was up early that morning, even before the sun. In truth he had little motivation to sleep at all. Laying in bed, all he could do was think of how close he was to tasting Alaric. How he longed to take the prince in his arms and devour his unwilling lips. Would he taste like the magnolia he smells of? Or honey? Or cinnamon? Or some undiscovered unique taste that the gods had made just for the sweet prince? He knew not. But he resolved to find out. As if by magic, he heard a knock at the door and, knowing who it was, tried to hide the eagerness in his voice as he bid them enter. 

Alaric’s eyes were hooded as he came in, uttering a greeting in a clear but quiet voice. “Good morning, my Lord.”

“Good morning, highness. I trust you had a good night’s sleep?”

Still avoiding his eyes, and the subject of his punishment, he nodded, “Yes, my Lord.” His voice was haughty and devoid of the fear Duncan knew Alaric felt. And then as if faeries has taken over his body, the efficient Alaric began working and paying Duncan no heed.

Wether or not Alaric’s coldness had to do with Duncan spanking him was irrelevant, Duncan hated it regardless. He was truly an enigma. Terrified but haughty. Subjugated but proud. Broken but together. Alaric was an amalgam of pain and competence such as Duncan had never seen. And while Duncan had never been one to feel guilt over something he knew was right, he felt an overwhelming urge to apologise. Particularly for enjoying what he did far too much. And besides which, he thought to himself, he was indeed justified in what he did, and he would escalate the punishments as he had promised. The prince put him in a difficult and unnecessarily trying position. Conquest was not easy, and he would bend the Prince to his will to make it easier, no matter the guilt he felt at hurting such a lovely creature. 

His train of thought was cut abruptly by Alaric clearing his throat. Gods, he had been staring and Alaric had noticed. Alaric’s eyes immediately lowered as Duncan met them, clearly still embarrassed and hurt by the beating he had received at his conqueror’s hand. 

“Prince Alaric.” He was determined to make him understand. 

“Yes, my Lord.” Here was that icily polite tone. 

“Look up at me, highness.” Duncan stood up as his eyes slowly came up to look at his face. The young man instantly started as Duncan lifted his shirt. “Please. Remain calm. I must show you something.” Alaric froze in place, but his breathing did not slow. “See the small scar under my ribs?” He waited until Alaric found it and nodded hesitantly. “The remainder of a vicious whipping. I was 17 years old. A lord’s son but a soldier all the same. I made a huge mistake, disobeying my captain. My captain, the son of a fishmonger and a woman that smelled of dung, was right to beat me. He and I are not friends, but I learned much from him. And even today I would accept it. Please do not think I wish to demean you. But I will not hesitate. I cannot.”

Alaric was quiet as he eyed the scar, his expression indecipherable. He then spoke evenly, “My father was the only man, other than my brothers, allowed to discipline me. And much to the chagrin of my brothers, only ever had to once. I’d wronged someone. I was 7. I had not been punished since. To have the next punishment happen because of a kindness my family has kept for years is.. confusing.”

“Allow me to explain, then, kind prince.” Duncan then sits back down. “I would never presume to punish you for a kindness. But I have seen much conquest in my life. None of it easy. The battle is the easiest part, can you believe that? It’s the transition of power, the handing over of government from one hand to another, that is what is much more difficult. And more often than not, it involves violence. This has been so much easier than the other kingdoms...” he hesitated to continue. 

Alaric nodded, barely hiding his distaste. “Because of the betrayal.”

Duncan looked down. “Yes.”

“Because of what they did to me.”

Duncan looked up. “No. Never that.” Duncan’s voice whispered its sincerity. 

“There is little bloodshed here. But you... complicate things. I cannot allow you to be seen as a source of ire. You must be seen as completely...”

Alaric raised his head indignantly, princely arrogance rearing its head. “Subservient,” he spat the word. 

“Neutralised.” Duncan said this as if it made things better. 

“Conquered.”

“Blunted.”

“Do not insult my intelligence. I am a man grown and know exactly what you mean.”

“Believe it or not, Prince Alaric, I am doing this for your safety. This is the best case scenario for all involved.”

“Oh how kind of you, my Lord. What’s next? Bejewelled chains? Or a diamond collar?”

Duncan sighed in frustration. “I am doing this to keep you alive.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yes? Why is that?” He asked, implying an unspoken accusation.

Duncan got out of his chair and with the speed of lightening, had Alaric by his hair and looking up at him. “Because when my king asks me for your pretty little head, I will weep with the gods as I present it to him.” He tightened his grip to make an impassioned point. “Don’t. Make. Yourself. Look. Like. A problem. Do you understand?”

Duncan did not wait for an answer, not even a nod. He let go and continued. “You are loved here, Alaric. A symbol of what was. And a glimmer of hope that Stygia will one day return to that. That, in this particular situation, is a very precarious position to be in. My king is reasonable. But he will not tolerate dissent. I know him well.”

“You kill for him often enough.”

“Yes!” Duncan said, his frustration growing. “As your brothers did for your father. As any soldier does. You can bury your face in these ledgers to your heart’s content because of people like me and your brothers.”

“My brothers never went about conquering anyone under the guise of unity.”

“This is all very noble, princeling, but the world in which you live is a far cry from the real one.”

“Thinking the world should be a certain way does not mean ignorance of its reality, my Lord. Without men like your king, you would not look down upon me so. I would still have my brothers. I would still be able to sleep the night without a healer’s potion. And you.. you would still have your mercy.”

“I am devoid of mercy? Me? After all I have done for a smooth, bloodless transition? Your indigence is understandable, highness, but your harshness is not.”

“Excuse me for not lauding your mercy and kind heart, my Lord, after having beaten me for the crime of charity!”

“I have explained that that is not why I punished you.”

“Yes, you have, while in the same breath telling me you would do it again.”

“I would. And I would do it as many times as it takes for you to understand what this situation is. You claim gratitude for my thoughtfulness of not putting you in chains and under lock and key, or worse, giving you back to the Royal Guard.” Alaric flinched at the last part. “And yet you make little effort to make it easier on me to treat you so. I am understanding that this change is big for you, but I beg of you... obey.”

They looked at each other for a while, Duncan, firm and reasonable, and Alaric, indignant and malleable. 

Finally, Alaric spoke. “I make no promises, my Lord.”

Duncan again, sighed. “I imagined you would say that. Can you at least try?”

Duncan almost missed the firm nod.

_____________

Duncan had stepped out and left Alaric alone. Looking at the chest of ledgers, he had his back to the room door. Hearing a shuffling sound behind him, he did not turn around, assuming it was Duncan and finding in himself a surprising trust for him. Duncan was a man strong enough to be honest with his harm. 

Turning around, however, he was suddenly faced with an unwelcome surprise. A hand over his mouth killed the yelp of surprise leaving his lips. Faced with Ambrose, fear flooded his eyes and he began to shake. No, no, Duncan promised, he said to himself. He promised.

“I’ll take my hand off. If you make a sound, I’ll hurt you. You want me to hurt you?” Alaric shook his head frantically. “Quiet, hmm? I just want to talk.” Alaric nodded and Ambrose released him, but did not put any space between them. He was still too close... uncomfortably close.

“What do you want?” Alaric’s voice continued to surprise him, with its strength.

“I thought I’d broken you.” Ambrose’s voice lacked its usual smug teasing. He sounded serious, as if he’d been lost in thought.

“You have,” Alaric said, looking down.

“No,” Ambrose said, evenly. “No, I haven’t.” He looked up. “Act like it, though.”

“What?” 

“Act broken, Alaric.” Alaric flinched as he came even closer. “Act broken, act subdued. Behave. Do what he says. I heard what he said. Don’t be a problem.”

“I would have thought you’d like it if he hurt me.”

Suddenly, Ambrose’s hand was it his throat, but there was little anger in his eyes. He leaned in, brushing his lips against Alaric’s lightly. “I don’t want you to die. I cannot let that happen. When the dust is settled, you'll be mine. How can I own a dead thing?”

“You will never have me.”

“I already have you. If I can patiently endure the torment of seeing you, and not touching you...” Ambrose looked down, sorrow in his eyes for a split second. He looked back up, jaw set, and stared at Alaric threateningly. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you. I don’t care if you do something that warrants a beating. I don’t care if he smacks you around. I don’t care if he puts you in a cage and throws away the key. But so help me, if you do something so stupid that it endangers your life, I will make your time in the dungeons seem like a walk in the palace gardens, orders be damned. Do you understand me?” He paused. “Do you doubt that I will?” Alaric shook his head. He would be a fool not to believe a threat from Ambrose.

Ambrose looked at Alaric, had still holding the young man firmly in place. In a moment if weakness, he whispered, “Kiss me.”

“No,” Alaric did not whisper, but his voice was low and firm. 

“Kiss me or I’ll kill you, Alaric,” he continued to whisper euphorically, eyes closed.

“I said no,” Alaric replied through gritted teeth.   
Ambrose opened his eyes, and took a deep breath as if he had just awakened, and forced his lips onto Alaric’s. Alaric struggled, his groans drowned by Ambrose’s lips and the had at his throat. The kiss broke shortly, and Ambrose kissed the tip on Alaric’s nose, a small and innocent peck. “Broken indeed,” Ambrose quipped sarcastically and released Alaric so abruptly, he nearly keeled over. 

Walking backwards, he continued, his tone serious. “Remember what I said and heed my warning, your Highness.” He then pivoted and walked out of the office. 

Alaric’s legs were weak, and yet they had a power all their own, as they carried him to his chambers, leaving the ledgers and all his work behind. The water in his chamber was cold, but he cared little as he scrubbed every inch of him Ambrose touched. He looked himself in the mirror in disgust at his own weakness. Was there no one that could not, WOULD not, overpower him? Why does he bother saying no? 

He shook his head against such intrusive thoughts and scrubbed. He scrubbed himself red and wept. What was he to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me at damienscull.tumblr.com 
> 
> Let’s have some writing fun!

**Author's Note:**

> Please visit me at https://damienscull.tumblr.com/
> 
> I love talking to you guys. And check out my other fic!


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